Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  At the Academy, she’d once read that you can put dogs off your scent by keeping to water. She jumped into the swollen stream, gasping at the cold and bracing herself against its current. Because it would only get stronger downstream, she squared her shoulders and waded in the opposite direction, grateful for the cover of the hedge. On she went, until her legs were trembling with weariness and cold. She’d covered nearly a mile. Clambering out, she cowered shivering under a tree, meaning to dry her legs in the sun. But clouds were piling in from the west, and spots of rain arrived on the rising wind. She abandoned the stream and headed in a direction she judged to be south.

  As the rain subsided, she came upon a farmhouse. She could smell bread, and the kitchen door was open; but even as she contemplated running in to grab something, a woman with a red headscarf and arms like barrels peered out of the back door, extending a hand to see if it still rained. Clara hid.

  She scrambled on, through overgrown fields and a lonely wooded valley. Now the land was empty, and she would have been glad to hear a voice. The afternoon drew on. As Clara wrestled with some stiff barbed wire, trying to twist it out of her way so that she could squeeze through, the rain returned. This time it was heavy, and by the time she’d succeeded – at the cost of a deep scratch to her thumb – she was soaked. Now she was back where people lived, for this field had been ploughed, and the mud stuck hungrily to her shoes. Her feet were heavy as stones, and she staggered as she struggled up the incline. Though the evening was mild, she was shivering. At the top of the field was a large, plank-built barn.

  The door wasn’t locked, so Clara slipped through and closed it behind her. Immediately she felt warmer. The place smelt of horse, and of old wood, but also of straw. Through the gloom she could see rough bales and ricks standing in one corner, while a great mountain of pale stalks spilt out from another. Dust covered the floor, and everywhere was dry.

  So far she had been driven by fear and instinct. Now, exhausted, she found a place out of the draughts behind a large rick, and dropped down into the straw. As the rain beat a drumroll on the barn roof, Clara feverishly pulled more and more straw on top of herself. Then she screwed up her eyes and tried to cry louder than the rain. Here was her reward. She’d betrayed Amy and she’d turned on her mother, and now probably both of them were dead. If you betray people, what can you expect in return? If only Sophia and James hadn’t got together, if only they hadn’t mated. Then Clara the Natural would never have been born. ‘Let me die,’ she sobbed. ‘Let me die.’

  Clara’s hand was cold. Pulling it back under the straw, she squeezed it between her knees to warm, wriggling herself further into the dry heap. Her cheeks were chilled, too. The day’s first grey light filtered in, and around her she heard the sounds of the barn: the creak of the boards, the flutter of straw in a draught, the thrum of rain on the roof.

  She hadn’t died, then. But Grana’s treachery was still real, and so were all of its consequences. Sophia and James were gone – arrested, and taken no-one knew where – and her own new life had been torn from her. Thanks to Grana, she was cast out like a dog. No, worse than a dog – at least a dog could find food for itself. The hot tears came again, and Clara clamped her mouth shut. All was lost. She would lie there, under the straw, until she starved.

  She woke, surprised that she’d dozed. What had woken her? Then she froze – surely there’d been a noise, a soft rustle somewhere. She listened intently, waiting for the sound to repeat itself. Then she cried out, spinning over and sending the straw flying. Something had prodded her in the back.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she gasped, squinting as she pushed herself back into the shadows.

  ‘Sh! Keep quiet!’ came a voice. In the open doorway stood a boy, small and scrawny and dressed in a torn jumper. Clara guessed him to be her own age, or a little younger. His eyes were wide. ‘Wait there, will ya?’ he was saying.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Clara hoarsely.

  The boy was peering out of the doorway. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s people coming. You got to cover yourself up again.’

  ‘What?’

  He threw another glance in the direction of the door. ‘Just stay hid, all right?’

  Heart thumping, Clara burrowed back into the straw while the boy threw an extra layer on top and pushed one of the stacked ricks to block her hiding place. After some moments during which she could hear nothing but her own breathing, she became aware of voices, getting nearer.

  A woman’s accent, definitely London, rang out: ‘All clear, then, Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon,’ the boy replied.

  There was a lull. By the sound of it, several people had stopped at the door.

  ‘All right,’ said the woman. ‘This’ll do. A bit smelly, but it’s dry. We’ll stay here for the day.’

  For the day? thought Clara. I’m stuck here all day?

  Now more people – a lot more – were coming into the barn. There was a general shuffling and clomping, the thump of burdens being set down, groans as people eased out their backs or slumped down on the bales. There were men as well as women, and Clara thought she could hear a child fretting. Her nose was itching, but she resisted the temptation to move – the crackling straw would give her away at once. She chewed the inside of her lip. Two or three women had settled on bales close by, and Clara could catch snippets of their conversation: something about how many miles they’d covered, and what the weather would do. Who were these people, and what were they doing in the barn? Why had the boy warned her to stay hidden? And how long would they stay there?

  The hum of their voices, her own exhaustion, and her enforced stillness, made Clara drowsy. She blinked, and tried to take a long breath. She mustn’t fall asleep. Then a brisk clink-clink, stone on stone, came from the direction of the door. In a minute, the tang of smoke reached her nostrils, and she braced herself, ready to spring up and escape the blaze before it took hold. But the conversations around her continued, as if nothing was happening. And in a moment Clara knew why: she could smell meat, cooking. The urge to show herself and beg for food became overpowering. Before she could move, however, someone clapped their hands and, except for the sizzling of the food, the barn fell quiet.

  ‘Friends,’ said a voice – a man’s voice, warm like toast, but deep and sonorous – ‘let us give thanks to the good people of Haslemere.’

  There was a ripple of laughter from around the barn.

  ‘Praise for these chickens,’ he went on, ‘provided by their generosity for our fortification, and bread in abundance.’

  ‘Go on,’ remarked one of the women in an undertone. ‘the Don’s a card, ain’t he?’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said one of the others, ‘here he comes.’

  Clara felt some of the nearby ricks being moved. She tensed, and held her breath; but she hadn’t been discovered yet. More dust found its way through the straw.

  The newcomers were settling down to eat, and bottles were uncorked. ‘So,’ said a man with a plummy voice, ‘where are we moving to next? Better not stay round here much longer. We’ll attract attention. Don’t want the Repsegs after us.’

  ‘The Don said we’d make for the Thames, didn’t he?’ That was the woman who’d come first into the barn, thought Clara.

  ‘Yeah,’ said another. ‘The Thames. We can move faster round there. Haven’t been up river for a while.’

  ‘What about the New Forest?’ said Plummy.

  ‘Nah,’ wheezed one of the women. ‘We oughter leave that till winter, get hold of the wood.’

  ‘It’d take ’em by surprise if we went now.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said another man’s voice, cold and grim. ‘More Repseg scum to put away, and all,’ he added with a chuckle.

  So many men! thought Clara. She tried to suppress a sniff, and found she’d got dust up her nostrils. Screwing up her face tight, she tried to push herself down into the straw. A rushing sound filled her ears, and she lost interest in the conversation. At last, though, the itchin
g subsided and she began to take notice again. By now another woman was speaking in a fussy, shrivelled voice.

  ‘This is all very well,’ she said, ‘but we are always putting off the inevitable. How can we forward the cause of the Revolution when we are not in London? Tell me, when are we going to move in? Or are you going to chicken out again?’

  The man with the deep voice – the Don, was he called? – chuckled. ‘When the time is right, dear lady. When the time is right.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Fussy, through a mouthful of food. ‘For you, it will never be right.’

  ‘My friend, my friend,’ said the other. ‘We will get there, I promise. As the good Ma has rightly said, we shall go up the Thames, where the pickings are rich – especially in this season of plenty.’ He paused, and gave an enormous burp. ‘I crave pardon. Ahem. To resume: we will to the river, as they say, and proceed upstream, perhaps as far as Oxford.’

  ‘Plenty o’ pickings round Oxford,’ put in the first woman.

  ‘Precisely so. Victuals to be purloined and riches to be pilfered.’

  ‘Eh?’ said another.

  Clara thought she could hear the Don sigh. ‘Food ter steal,’ he said, in a perfect London accent, ‘and jools ter nick. Awright, Ada?’

  There was general laughter.

  ‘Resuming once more,’ said the Don. ‘In Oxford we will spy out the land, reconnoitre, take our bearings, find what we can find. Then, as winter comes on, we will drift casually down-river and reach the great metropolis, where we will join forces with our Underground colleagues. And then,’ he added, ‘–boomph!’

  Clara had been listening so intently that she hadn’t noticed what was going on in her nostrils. So she was as surprised as anyone when, just as the Don finished speaking, she gave an almighty sneeze. After the long minutes spent straining to hear the conversation, it almost deafened her; and by the time she’d recovered, a puzzled silence had fallen in the barn.

  ‘Here!’ said the plummy voice. ‘There’s someone in the corner!’

  ‘Very astute, Mr Tesley,’ said the Don. ‘Where there is a sneeze, there also is a person.’

  ‘What’s this?’ said the woman called Ma. ‘Jack Pike, I thought you said it was clear!’ And Clara heard the sound of a smack.

  ‘Mr Tesley,’ said the Don. ‘Do us the honour.’

  ‘Come out slowly,’ said Tesley, his voice quivering a little. ‘If you don’t, uh, Acker will stick you!’

  ‘You can do your own sticking,’ said the cold voice.

  Clara closed her eyes. When would it ever end?

  ‘Come out,’ said Tesley, ‘or we’ll use this pitchfork.’

  Something inside Clara snapped. ‘All right!’ she shouted, thrusting herself up and letting the straw fall off her. ‘All right! Do what you want to me! I don’t care!’ Her knees were trembling, and there was an ache in her lungs. ‘I hate you all. I hate everyone! Everyone, d’you hear? I hate you. Come on, then.’

  She saw that the barn contained a couple of dozen people. Near the far door, two women had taken their eyes off the cooking to see what was going on. Everyone was staring.

  A few feet away stood a well-made, fair-haired man, holding a pitchfork. Next to him was an even taller man, with an egg-shaped head and thin black hair plastered down to one side. Little black eyes gleamed out of a podgy face; his shoulders sloped like a mountainside, and his long, stained canvas coat had difficulty staying on. To his left a sharp-faced man dressed in a dark coat, dusty trousers and pointy shoes, was fingering a knife. He grinned. ‘She’s a-spying, that’s what,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘C’mon, I’ll deal with her.’

  A small woman, with short curly hair that had once been yellow, stepped out from behind the Don. ‘You’ll do no such thing Acker, you big creep,’ she said, wagging a finger. ‘I expect she’s just lost, ain’t you, love?’

  Clara stared around at the faces: women and men, young and old, pale and dark; and ordinary, every one of them. How she longed for ordinary things!

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice rising as she gulped air. ‘Yes. That’s what I am. I’m lost. Oh!’ She wasn’t sure what happened next, because she was too busy sobbing. She sobbed as the woman put a hand on her shoulder, a hand from which she didn’t shrink; she sobbed as they coaxed her to sit down on a bale; she sobbed as the woman put an arm around her. Her ribs hurt, her nose was wet and her eyes itched. But at length, as these things do, the fit subsided, and she could cry no more. She shivered, and the woman wrapped a cloak around her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Clara through still-bubbly lips. She tugged the cloak around her.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ said the woman. ‘We ain’t going to hurt you.’

  Clara looked into her face: a pleasant face, with wide blue eyes and broad cheekbones, and tiny ears nestling in the curls. A face that had seen much, for there were lines around the mouth and hollows under the eyes. But just now, the woman was smiling.

  ‘Sorry I made a fool of myself,’ said Clara.

  ‘’s all right. You hungry?’

  Clara nodded, and squeezed her aching eyes again to make sure they were dry.

  The woman made a gesture behind Clara’s back. ‘We’ve only got chicken and bread, but it’s better than nothing, hey?’ She regarded Clara. ‘What’s your name, love?’

  ‘Clara,’ she said.

  ‘Got another name?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t suppose it’s much use to me now.’

  ‘Ha! Yeah, there’s a lot of us like that. I’ve got a proper name, too, and maybe I’ll use it again, one day. But for now, everyone calls me Ma. Just Ma.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Ironic really, ’cause I never had no children.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clara. She wasn’t sure what to say next.

  ‘Couldn’t get a licence,’ said Ma, simply. ‘Ah! Here we are.’

  The boy Jack, and a girl of about the same age, had appeared with some food. The girl had long, frizzy red hair, most of which had escaped from an attempted pony-tail. Like Jack, she was thin and bony, and she stared at Clara with eyes so brown that they were almost black. She offered Clara a tin dish which held a leg of chicken and a chunk of grey bread.

  ‘This is Matty,’ said Ma.

  Clara smiled at the girl, who blushed and handed her the dish. ‘Thank you, Matty,’ Clara said, and the girl ran off as soon as she could.

  ‘She’s a bit shy,’ explained Ma. ‘And here’s Jack, who was supposed to see if anyone was in the barn. But I expect you got more of a shock than we did, hey?’

  Jack held out a bottle of ale, newly opened. Clara looked up into his face and said, ‘Thank you, Jack. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jack, looking down at his feet.

  Clara set to, while Ma and Jack looked on. She had a vague idea that Jack looked familiar, but she pushed the thought away: she had some eating and drinking to do. The ale, weak though it was, went straight to her head, and as soon as she’d devoured the food she felt her eyelids drooping again. But then she heard the Don’s deep voice, and Acker’s creaking rasp. They came and stood before her; Jack crept aside.

  ‘Good, good,’ beamed the Don. ‘So, my dear, you have partaken of our modest feast?’

  Clara looked up at this giant, looming over her like a small tower block. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Acker sidled around the Don. ‘Garn,’ he said. ‘What you going ter do with her, then? Got to do something …’ He turned his spark-bright eyes on Clara. ‘What you doin’ here, darling?’

  The Don frowned. ‘Ah, yes, young lady. It grieves me to return to business, but I fear we must ask, by order of the council. Pray do tell, wotchoo doin’ here, darlin’?’ he finished, in a passable imitation of Acker.

  Clara looked around. All eyes were on her. Now was the reckoning: what on earth could she tell them? Anything she admitted to – Truth Sister or Natural – would be a gamble. The rain still pattered on the roof and walls of the ba
rn, but inside, no-one made a sound. Off to her right, someone gently closed the door. Clara spotted Jack, loitering behind Acker. He nodded encouragingly.

  She took a deep breath. ‘They – they found I was a Natural,’ she said. Still everyone watched; she plunged on. ‘My parents have been arrested. My aunt was going to turn me in. I ran away.’

  The Don gave a wry smile. ‘Ah. Alas, it is all too common a tale.’

  Clara looked up. Were there others just like her, others who’d lost everything?

  ‘That’s a fine suit you got there, darling,’ said someone.

  ‘Leave ’er alone,’ snapped Ma. ‘Poor thing.’

  Acker stepped forward, still leering. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘but what we going to do with her?’

  ‘Now, now,’ said the Don, ‘we are all tired. Let us sleep on it. We can decide what to do with her tonight.’

  ‘We can’t have her running off and blabbing. I still reckon she’s a spy.’

  ‘My dear Acker, what do you take me for?’ The Don fished a flask from a deep pocket and took a swig (Clara didn’t think it smelt like water). ‘She shall be watched. Isn’t that so, Ma?’

  Ma grinned. ‘Jack Pike,’ she said. ‘Here you go – since you missed her, you can take the watch. And you can keep an eye on her while you’re at it.’

  Jack’s pale eyes opened wide. ‘What, all day?’

  ‘All day,’ said Ma, wagging a finger. ‘No sleep for you, m’boy. If she gets away, you’ll be for it.’

  Clara stood up. ‘I won’t run,’ she said, meeting Jack’s gaze. ‘I promise. I’ve got nowhere to go.’

  Jack hugged his bony knees and stared out through the gap between the barn doors. He flicked a glance at Clara. ‘You come far?’ he said, just above a whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Clara. ‘That is, I think so. I got away this morning. I mean, yesterday morning. I just kept going all day. I got here at dark.’ She sighed. ‘Thanks for trying to keep me hidden.’